


Every Other Day

by NellieOleson



Category: Stargate SG-1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NellieOleson/pseuds/NellieOleson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally posted in two parts. Whenever Monday Comes and Every Other Day. Gateship challenge: Monday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Other Day

  
Daniel dies on a Monday.  
  
Again.  
  
And again, they find themselves with no body. No closure. But this time, there is also no conflict  
in their minds, no lingering doubt that they were mistaken.  
  
She’s not counting that as a good thing. Daniel isn’t coming back, and she wants to scream at the  
unfairness of it.  
  
It’s dark by the time she finds herself on his doorstep. She knows she shouldn’t be here, not now,  
not when she feels so damn helpless. Not when she knows that no matter what they do, no matter how  
good they are, one of them can still be dead.  
  
She tries to tell him that she’s not sure why she came. “Sir, I-“ But that’s a lie. She knows it, and  
so would he. He looks down at her face, and she wonders what he sees there. Pain? Anger?  
Need? She feels all of that and more. He can take his pick.  
  
“I know.” He says simply. And she’s relieved. Relieved that she doesn’t have to tell him,  
doesn’t have to give voice to something she’s spent the better part of three years denying.  
  
Her fingers tighten around his hand as he leads her down the hall. He knows why she’s here,  
what she wants, and he’s going to give it to her. She thinks maybe she should feel guilty, but she  
doesn’t. She just can’t bring herself to care about any of it right now. Because Daniel is dead, and  
nothing will ever be the same.  
  
It seems as though he isn’t going to give her what she came for after all. She came for something  
frantic, desperate even. She wants him to help her forget, wants to lose herself in him. She thinks  
she might even want it to hurt. But frantic and desperate don’t seem to be on the menu this evening.  
  
He’s taking his time, slowly exploring her body with his hands, his tongue. It’s bordering on  
agonizing, and she just wants him inside of her. Hard and fast. But she lets him take her at his  
own pace, because she understands. He can’t fix what happened to Daniel, can’t make it better,  
but this he can control. This he can make right for her when everything else is wrong.  
  
Tuesday brings guilt, uncertainty, and the promise of something more.

 

*********

  
Daniel dies on Monday.  
  
By the time Friday evening rolls around, Jack is beginning to wish it had been him.  
  
Carter’s a mess. His career is about to implode --hers too, probably-- and Hammond is on his ass about finding a replacement geek. So, yeah, death is looking like a pretty good deal right now. Is it wrong to be jealous of a dead man?  
  
He can handle the geek replacing. He doesn’t want to handle it, but he will. And as much as he loves his job, he’s never been one to let his career rule his life. He’s written several letters of resignation, and the day one of them makes its way to Hammond’s desk gets closer all the time.  Mostly it’s Carter who has him wishing he were the one to stop the Kelownans from blowing themselves up.  
  
His feet settle on his coffee table as he leans back into the couch. _Carter_.  She’s been at his house every night.  He understands what brought her here that first night, but things have rapidly moved from please-help-me-forget-about-Daniel sex to something … _something else._ And he isn’t exactly sure it’s something better. The sex is still part of the equation, and sex with Carter is right at the top of his list of good things. But the rest, he considers as he finishes a beer, the rest is not so good.  
  
It isn’t about Daniel at all anymore.  Daniel’s death had been the catalyst, but still -- _so_ not about Daniel anymore. He’s actually done a fair job of convincing Carter that Daniel chose ascension, that it was what he wanted. Now it’s just about them. _And the sex._ She isn’t in his bed because she needs to be there, she’s there because she wants to be. Carter isn’t one to do things just because she wants to, and the guilt is eating away at her. It’s in her eyes every time she walks into his house. _And that’s a lie_ , he thinks while his naked toes toy with an empty pizza box lid. The guilt is in her eyes no matter where he sees her these days.  
  
And he sees her a lot. He thought she would try to avoid him at work, but she hasn’t. Add in the hours she spends with him after work, and they‘ve probably doubled the amount of time they spend together. For most of the week she made an effort to stay at her own place, showing up at his house just in time to fall into bed with him. Yesterday, she followed him straight home from the mountain. They ate dinner together, watched stupid television shows together, and took a long shower together.  
  
His fingers begin to coax the label away from his empty bottle and he stares at his muted television while the highlight reel from the previous evening begins to roll in his head. Again. Yes, Thursday was a good day for him.  
  
It may, however, have been the high point of Carter’s misery.  The tension that had clung to her all week was screaming at him last night. Most people wouldn’t have noticed; she was very good at stomping down the emotions she didn’t want to share. But he wasn’t most people.  
  
He had noticed.  
  
The emotional baggage she was carrying around these days looked like Teal’c’s lunch tray, piled high with the fruits of guilt and self-recrimination. And he could relate to that, really. He'd been quite intimate with those emotions for a long time, but he'd known when to let go and move on.  He occasionally finds himself being ripped out of a dream by the echo of a gunshot. But still, he’s moved on. Really.  
  
Carter, never one to do anything half-assed, has opted to make a second career out of her self-loathing. He’s pretty sure if it had just been that one time, she could have gotten over it. She does, on occasion, allow the errant imperfection to sneak into her persona. He is not so sure he could have gotten over it, but he would have tried. If she had asked.  
  
He knows her inability to stay away from him is like candy to her I’m-a-big-giant-failure complex, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. The only option he really has is to turn her away, and that just isn’t going to happen. He may be a selfish bastard, but there is no way he can go back to the way things were last week. Not when he can still hear the sounds she makes just before falling apart around him. Not after she’s fallen asleep draped across him, drooling on his chest. And not after they’ve stayed up late into the night watching old movies on his couch, her head on his lap and his hand in her hair.  
  
The glare of headlights washing over his living room announces her arrival, and the ache in his chest welcomes her. He considers getting up to let her in, but figures they’re beyond that. She’ll let herself in. The door isn’t locked and she knows where to find him. _Always knows where to find him_. He waits, listening for the sound of her car door. She always parks right in his driveway and that worries him. It’s not a very smart thing to do.  
  
Too much time passes and he goes to the window, wondering if she has finally realized that he’s not really worth the effort. Her car is still there and he wants to run out and drag her inside. He goes to the kitchen to get another beer instead, not because he wants one, but because he’s afraid she’ll leave while he’s watching. And as fucked up as this is, he doesn’t think he can do that.  
  
An unexpected rush of air passes through the hall and he barely manages to sidestep the opening door. He can see that she didn’t expect this close encounter of the door kind either, but the uneasy mix of surprise and misery on her face is quickly replaced with a wry grin. He takes a moment to marvel at the fact that she can switch gears so quickly. She glances at the beer in his hand. “Is that for me?”  
  
Time slows to a crawl and he stares at her. His free hand is banished to his pocket before it can do anything stupid. He doesn’t want to play charades anymore, and pulling the band-aid away quickly really is the way to go. “I didn’t think you were going to come in this time.” The I’m-okay-you’re-okay mask slides off her face and lands in his hallway. She knows where this is going. Part of him expects her to turn and walk back out the door. He knows he caught her off guard and she hates that.  
  
But, she surprises him. Again.  
  
Without a word, she closes the door, takes his hand, and leads him down the stairs. He’s left standing in the middle of the room, feeling oddly out of place, while she paces in front of the fireplace. There’s nothing for him to say, so he waits, watching the silent colors of the television dance across her face. When she finally speaks, he’s not entirely sure if she’s talking to him or to herself.  
  
“I want to be here.” That much is obvious; he hasn’t exactly been clubbing her over the head and dragging her back to his cave. “It’s just… I don’t want to want it so badly.” She laughs, a cold, humorless laugh that makes him wish he had worn socks. “How pathetic is it that I can’t spend one damn night in my own bed?” He wonders just how pathetic he’s become in the past week. “I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. But I am _this_ close to letting it all go,” she admits, “because I can’t stand the thought of not being able to touch you anymore.”  
  
Wow. Despite their newfound physical closeness, they don’t actually talk much and this is new territory for them. He wasn’t really expecting this much from her. “I don’t know what to do,” is all he can say, because he doesn’t. At this point he’s pretty sure he’ll do whatever she wants him to do, but he doesn’t know what that is.  
  
“I know,” she sighs. “And I don’t expect you to.” She turns her back on him so she can speak to his mantle. “This is all my fault.”  
  
He lets this roll around in his brain as he watches her fingers trail around a picture frame. She still hasn’t looked at him. It really is her fault. While he hasn’t exactly been an unwilling participant, he knows he would never have been the one to instigate it. “It is,” he agrees, “but I love you anyway.”  
  
Her head whips around, and the ‘what the hell did you just say’ expression on her face is almost comical. _Almost._ Part of him wants to laugh; he thinks the other part might want to cry. _Could she really have not known?_ He decides to pretend his last comment didn’t happen. “We can do better than this.”   
  
She pretends right along with him. “No, we can’t. That’s the problem.” She’s right. As long as they are both at the SGC, this is as good as it can get. He doesn’t want a bastardized relationship. Not with her. His first thought is, _we are royally fucked_ , and the pizza in his stomach begins to stage a mutiny against his digestive system. He’s wrong though. There is one thing he can do. The realization doesn’t make him feel any better.  
  
“I’ll retire.” The words come easier than he thought they would. He _would_ retire, _wants_ to retire. _Needs_ to retire if that’s the only thing that will keep her here. Maybe he’s not such a selfish bastard after all. No. Still a selfish bastard --he’s definitely getting the better end of this deal.  
  
“No. No, you can’t do that. Not for me.” Her words contradict the hopeful look in her eyes. She’s probably not aware that it’s there.  
   
“I want this, Carter. I want _us._ More than I want that job.”  
  
She doesn’t quite flinch at that, but her eyes drop for a heartbeat. He knows she can’t say the same, knows she wants both equally. That should bother him, but it doesn’t. Mostly he’s just glad that he can say it.  She stares at him with disbelief shadowing her eyes. If she knows him half as well as she should, she’ll know he meant every word he said. Her acceptance of his words flashes in her eyes and he thinks she might cry, but she doesn’t. She simply says, “Thank you,” and then she’s in his arms and somehow everything is better already.  
  
He holds her until the silence begins to creep towards uncomfortable. “So, we’re okay? Because it was really nice having a sex life again.”  
  
She pulls back and glares at him. Glares as effectively as she can with so much amusement in her eyes, anyway. “Is that what we have? A sex life?”  
  
“Well, yeah. Were you expecting more?”  
  
Her eyebrow arches and he wants to kiss it.  “If I were only interested in sex, I’d be sleeping with Teal’c.”  
  
Oh. _What?_ “Now see, there was just no reason to say that,” he gripes. Then, with a theatrical shudder, “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get that image out of my head.”  
  
She moves way the hell into his personal space, and slides a hand down his chest. “I think maybe I can help you with that.”  
  
He thinks she may be right. His hands move to cradle her face and he kisses her. Soft and gentle, and it’s the first time all over again, only without the weird Daniel-just-died subtext. His hands abandon her face to slide down her chest and _thank God_ for retirement. He forgets all about Daniel as she teases his mouth open with her tongue and nips at his bottom lip.  
  
 _Christ_ , his pants are pooled around his ankles and he’s not sure how that happened, but he doesn’t really care, because she’s running her palm down the front of his boxers and the friction is so fucking intense. He grabs her wrist to still her hand before he embarrasses himself, and starts to work her shirt over her head. He realizes that his boxers are gone as her shirt falls to the floor, and _how the hell does she do that?_  
  
Somehow he manages not to trip as she backs him into the couch, and he sits down with a complete lack of grace. She straddles his hips; he wants to ask when she took her pants off, because he doesn’t remember doing it for her. Wants to ask, but can’t; his mouth has other plans and is busy with her breasts.  
  
He reluctantly releases a nipple to look up at her and she’s eyeballing him like he’s a new piece of alien technology. The look almost makes him nervous; he’s seen what she does to some of that stuff. “What?”  
  
She’s still got that I-really-want-to-take-you-apart-and-probe-you look on her face, and he can’t get over how absolutely beautiful she is. She leans forward to kiss his neck and whisper in his ear. “I love you too.”

He already knows this. But knowing it, and having it come out of her mouth while she’s naked and in his lap are two completely different things. His heart starts doing a little happy dance in his chest and he feels the need to say some completely unmanly stuff, but doesn’t. Opting --not surprisingly- to go with the lame humor instead. “So, Teal’c? Really?”

Her only reply is an unapologetic shrug as she lowers herself onto him. His head falls back as she begins to move and he frantically searches for a distraction. His eyes fix on a crack in the ceiling. It runs almost completely across the opening that separates his dining room from his living room. He’s been meaning to fix it for the better part of three years. But all that saving the world stuff always got in the way of his home improvement plans.

She pauses on an upstroke to slowly gyrate her hips before sinking back down, and _to hell with the crack in the ceiling._ He puts one hand on her hip to steady her, and uses the other to stroke her with a practiced ease that has her making _the sounds_ at a speed that makes his head spin. Her forehead falls to his shoulder and he can feel her contracting around him. That’s his cue, and with a few more uncoordinated thrusts of his hips, he’s chasing her into oblivion. As his brain begins to downshift, he finds himself wondering if _he_ makes sounds, hoping that if he does, she will never, ever mention it to him.

He must have fallen asleep, passed out maybe, because she’s talking to him and whatever she’s saying isn’t hitting all the right relays. He opens his eyes and pokes his brain with a cattle prod. “Huh?”

“What are you going to tell General Hammond?” she says, slowly and deliberately, like he’s some kind of idiot. He wants to take offense at that. Later maybe. He might still be asleep. This line of questioning has some distinct nightmarish qualities to it. His eyes drift shut again.

She pokes his shoulder. _Hard._ “Jack.”

 _What?_ She really wants to discuss this now? “I thought I’d go with the truth,” he states dryly. “That I had to sacrifice my career in order to keep you from corrupting Teal’c’s innocence.”

She’s not as amused by that as he is. “I’m serious.”  She sounds serious and he reluctantly forces his eyes open so he can visually gauge her level of seriousness. He sighs and wishes he had a blanket to defend himself against the chill that has crept into the room. Or maybe just some socks.

It takes him a while to come up with a less amusing response. Talking to Hammond was, up until now, just a vague, nebulous scenario in the back of his mind. And she’s _naked_. In his _lap._ Why she expects him to be able to think clearly is a mystery. “Well, off the record, I’ll tell him the truth. I think he deserves that. Officially, I’ll lie through my teeth. Anything less would probably cost you your career. You know that.”

She lays her head back down on his shoulder and releases a sigh into his neck. It tickles and it takes all of his self-control to keep from jumping up and tossing her onto the floor. She hasn’t discovered just how ticklish he can be and he wants to keep it that way. That knowledge would surely become some sort of torture mechanism in her hands. “You’re right,” she says softly. “I don’t know why I brought it up.” She sighs again and he flinches.

He knows why she brought it up. Part of her wants him to just lie to Hammond, wants him to make up some reasons that have nothing to do with her. But he knows George well enough to know that the truth isn’t going to affect his professional opinion of Carter. And it will likely make no difference in his personal opinion of her either. He keeps this thought to himself, knowing she’ll figure it out on her own. Eventually.

He pulls her closer, tracing her spine with his fingers. “Let it go, Carter. I’ll deal with Hammond.” She relaxes against him and he thinks maybe she will let it go. For a little while, anyway.

Daniel trades his life for something more meaningful on a Monday.

The following Monday, Jack does the same.


End file.
